


Quilt

by Deejaymil



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Desperation, Emotional Sex, F/M, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Sexual Content, post-Revelations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-12-10 22:48:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11701464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deejaymil/pseuds/Deejaymil
Summary: He doesn’t sleep after Hankel, and she knows this because she’s not sleeping either.





	Quilt

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Annber03](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annber03/gifts).



> He doesn’t sleep after Hankel, and she knows this because she’s not sleeping either.

What they’re doing is nothing like sleeping but not really fucking either; he’s wrapped up pretty in the quilt her nana sewed her and she’s curled around him like she needs the shape of his body to remember how to _be_. The quilt is blue and silver in the null-light of the room they’re in. His body is flushed pink and white; her hands feel monstrous against him. Ice-cold under her burning palms, she finds every bruise, every scrape, as they search for their shared absolution for imagined sin. Or maybe they’re just lamenting together that there’s no way out of here for either of them.

She’s ruthless. She finds those marks and scrapes her nails down them, remarking them, reclaiming him. She’s loud. _Fuck you, Hankel,_ she snarls, as she touches the rope burns on his wrists, and _fuck you, Spencer,_ as she finds the track marks that are fresher than the one’s those hated fucking days left on him. A mewl like a kitten straining for a friendly hand squeezes from his wide-lipped mouth. She presses her own to it and grits her teeth and thinks of him dying as she comes like a shot fired from a revolver with one chamber loaded.

She’s angry.

He’s hard.

He’s cocked and ready inside her and, despite what they’re doing, his body is like winter against her burning skin.

Reminded that he’s human, she tugs the quilt tighter around the shoulders that are broader than they should be and wraps her legs around him, riding him down into Hell if that’s where he wants to take her. His feet are still bandaged and they check to make sure they’re not going to get bumped in the fight they’re having for his sanity. Because that’s what this is—this is her clinging to him. To the Spencer who took her to the Redskins game and cheered at all the wrong times. To the Spencer she loved and lost and failed and keeps fucking failing even as she pushes her hips down and feels him buck up underneath her. She thinks of that as she digs her nails into his chest and imagines reaching through those monitors and pressing down on his lazy, selfish, absolutely stopped heart.

Reminded that he’s mortal, she pulls him close and feels him live and wishes he was as easy to keep safe as the quilt her nana sewed her. Wishes he was as easy to mend.

He doesn’t sleep after Hankel, and she knows this because they’re busy trying to save him.


End file.
